


The Whistle in the Attic

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Halloween, Horror, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is Halloween, and something has come between Watson and his food.  Revenge is swift; it shows no mercy, and Holmes is terrified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Whistle in the Attic

I remember very well the first Halloween that I spent with my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes. The year was 1881, and I should, perhaps, point out that we did not know one another quite so well then, and were to a considerable extent still oblivious of each other's odd quirks and eccentricities. At any rate, we had passed that evening of the 30th pleasantly enough, complaining good-naturedly about the cold, blustery weather, and rhapsodising over Mrs. Hudson's extraordinarily fortifying hot apple pie and cream, when eventually our talk turned – as talk is wont to do – to the seasonal celebrations.

“Halloween is simply the most terrible bore,” said Holmes, stretching and arching his back in a lethargy, and rolling his eyes in an emphasis. “I guarantee to you that when we step outside tomorrow we shall be over-run immediately by a plethora of street-urchins, with skeleton ribs painted on their shirts, and cardboard fangs protruding from their mouths, and all of them begging for money as though we should feel obliged to applaud their tawdry efforts.”

“But they are _children_ , Holmes,” I admonished my friend. “You cannot deny them their fun, or a few pennies for sweets. I suppose that you intend upon brushing them aside, nudging them into the gutter while you mutter bad-temperedly, in that peculiar way of yours?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “That is precisely what I plan upon doing.” He yawned.

I shook my head. “You are impossible.” I thought for a moment, then, and smiled fondly at memories long passed. “I have always enjoyed Halloween,” I said. “A small boy's pleasure in tasting his first sugar skull... The aroma of freshly baked spider buns... The crunch of a chocolate centipede... Or the thrill of sitting around a crackling fire and listening to a well-told ghost story! Brrr!” I shivered in happy nostalgia.

I noticed that Holmes was staring at me as though I had quite lost my mind.

“You enjoy all that rubb-- I mean, you like it?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, frowning. “I do.”

Holmes shrugged and relit his pipe, and our talk turned to other topics.

The next morning I descended to breakfast to find the dishes already laid, and Holmes absent from the room. I sat down at my chair, humming, and lifted the lid of the dish nearest to me. I stopped. I looked. The lid froze in my grasp, halfway between going the way up and coming back down. There were scrambled eggs there, yes, admittedly, and they were cooked to perfection. However, I had not expected them to be shaped and moulded into the effigy of a giant bat.

I replaced the lid upon the dish. I did not know what to do with it.

“Good morning, Watson!” Holmes strolled into the sitting-room from the direction of his bedroom. He was examining his pocket-watch, paying fractional attention to my confusion.

“Holmes,” I said. “My scrambled eggs!”

He looked up. “What about your scrambled eggs?” he asked.

“They are in the shape of a bat,” I said.

“I beg your pardon, Watson, what?”

“They are in the shape of a _bat_ ,” I repeated. My voice had risen a pitch. Holmes blinked. He walked forward to the table, lifted the lid of the dish and examined the contents.

“So they are,” he remarked. He replaced the lid and walked around to his own side of the table.

“Did you do it?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.

“No,” said Holmes. He had lifted his newspaper, now, and was hiding behind it. His shoulders may have been shaking. It was difficult to tell.

“Well, Mrs. Hudson would hardly have done such a juvenile thing,” I said. I lifted the lid again. The scrambled-egg-bat looked back coolly. I sighed, took up my spoon and began to scoop. The eggs were too delicious to forego.

Having braved the street with its smattering of costumed ragamuffins, I commenced my usual morning routine -- such as it was at that time. I bought my tobacco, and took a stroll in the park to stretch my legs before paying a visit to Bart's to catch up on the news with my friend, Stamford. It was therefore after midday when I returned to 221B to rejoin Holmes in time for lunch. He was seated at his chemistry table, a noxious experiment coming thankfully to its conclusion. He wafted the fumes obligingly out of the way for me.

“I am famished,” I said. “I have been talking with Stamford.”

“You have a sandwich here,” said Holmes. “Mrs. Hudson brought it up.”

I eagerly picked up the plate from the sideboard, and slid off its covering.

My sandwich had been cut out into the shape of a ghost.

“Holmes,” I said, spinning around to my friend who was busying himself now with his test tubes, “I really do wish that you would stop playing around with my food.”

“I didn't do it!” said he, indignant.

“My sandwich is a _ghost!_ ”

He snorted, but somehow managed to transform the huff into a sneeze. He foraged for a handkerchief.

“With two eye holes,” I added, sadly. “And that just makes it a smaller sandwich.”

“I am sorry about your lunch,” said Holmes, blowing his nose. “I really am unable to explain this strange phenomena. But eat your sandwich anyway. I am sure that Mrs. Hudson could bring up another, if you asked her politely.”

I had no intention of explaining my ridiculous dilemma to our dear landlady.

By the evening, with a promise of roast beef and mashed potatoes for our dinner, I was determined that nothing whatsoever should be allowed to interfere with my meal. I was seated at the dining table in great advance; I set my steely gaze upon Holmes, who returned it nonchalantly. When Mrs. Hudson brought through the tray, I was wholly confident of nothing having gone amiss, and despite our landlady's curious wince of greeting and her swift departure, I smiled in triumphant glee as I settled down to my dish.

I leapt up from my chair with a snarl and a howl.

My mashed potatoes had been sculpted into a castle upon a mountain-top. I had a green bean crescent moon, and trees constructed of sprouts and carrot strips. It was art. It was a masterpiece. It was absolutely bloody infuriating.

“Watson, whatever is the matter?” enquired Holmes, as he speared a succulent carrot from his own, unblemished dish. “You are almost apoplectic, my dear boy.”

“My... my _DINNER!_ ” I hooted, impotently. “It is all castles and moons and, and....” I tapered off, despairing.

“But that all sounds rather pleasant,” he replied. “Whyever are you so cross about it?”

“You have done this!” I stabbed at him with my finger. “You! You slipped away downstairs and did this... this nonsense. Just as you did earlier today with my sandwich and my scrambled eggs.”

“I thought you _enjoyed_ Halloween,” complained Holmes. “You were going on about it incessantly yesterday evening. And now I am beginning to think that you don't like it after all.” He coughed.

“You are giggling,” I said, accusingly.

Holmes sniffed. “I am doing nothing of the sort,” he said. I would have sworn to him covering a smirk with his shirt-sleeve. “Now behave, and eat your castl... I mean, your dinner. There is absolutely nothing wrong with it, Watson.”

I sat down. I picked up my knife and my fork, and I ate my potato castle, my green bean moon and my sprout and carrot trees. I sulked all the while. The roast beef was very good.

Mrs. Hudson came to clear away the empty dishes. I saw from her poor anxious face that she had anticipated my reaction to my friend's mischief. I patted her hand, smiled at her soothingly. For I had my own plan forming presently in my mind, and my revenge would be quite sweet. Holmes and I moved across to our fireside chairs, then. He poured us each a tumbler of brandy, and we lit up our cigars.

“I have a story,” I said, leaning back and enjoying the warmth from the flames, “which I think you might perhaps like to hear.”

Holmes looked at me, sceptical. “Is it about monsters?” he asked.

I smiled. “No, my dear fellow, it is not about monsters. It relates to the curious case of the whistle in the attic.”

My friend arched an eyebrow. He leaned forward. “The whistle in the attic?”

I nodded. “Mmm, yes. Oh, such a mysterious thing! From before I met you. But if you do not wish to hear it, then we shall speak no more about it.”

“No, I want to hear the story,” said Holmes. He nudged me with his foot. “Go on.”

“I am not sure if you deserve to be told the story, seeing what damage you did to each of my meals today.”

“Oh be quiet. Tell me the story.”

“Very well. I shall attempt to do both, although that might pose a problem.” I smiled malevolently. “Are you sitting comfortably?”

Holmes nodded, eager.

“It was many years ago. There was an old lady who lived in a very old house in the middle of nowhere, with only a few neighbours surrounding her. It was one dark night, when she was--”

“What was her name?” Holmes interrupted.

“It is not important,” I said, annoyed that my flow had been broken. “Oh, let us say, Mrs. Williams, then. Mrs. Williams was lying all alone in her bed, for the house quite empty, save for her dear self, _when she heard it_. A strange, low whistle from high up above. From the attic! The noise persisted for some minutes, and varied neither in strength nor in tone. Eventually, the old lady was curious enough to step out of her bed and investigate. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and opened her bedroom door, and climbed the twenty rickety wooden stairs up to the attic. Now, Mrs. Williams was a woman of sound common sense, and she did not consider herself susceptible to an attack of nerves at a mere creak in the floorboards, or a knock in the pipes. But this! This sound was very different; it permeated so very eerily through the walls, that she imagined it might be heard in every room of her little house. She opened the door of the attic, so very slowly, and peered cautiously inside...

“The whistling stopped abruptly.”

I paused and looked at Holmes. His eyes were wide; he had inched himself forward to the edge of his chair. His cigar had produced a long, neglected stem of ash in his forgetfulness to smoke it, such was his involvement with the story.

“It was an ill-fitting window!” he said, “Or a trapped mouse!”

“It was neither of those things,” I continued, my voice low and ominous. “The windows were all secure. The fireplace had no draught. The whistle did not sound like any rat, bird or cat. As the whistling had now ceased, and it remained completely silent for as long as old Mrs. Williams stood there in the attic doorway, she decided that _whatever it was_ had now gone. She returned to her bed. The noise did not recur that night.

“The following evening, however, once again when Mrs. Williams had retired to bed and was drifting off into her dreams -- there it was, above her head: that strange, ghostly whistle. And once again, she pulled on her shawl, and she climbed the stairs, and opened the door. The whistle stopped as soon as she stepped foot in the room. She noticed now, also, that the room was icily cold, even though it was scarcely Autumn.”

Holmes's eyebrows had converged. He had cast aside his unsmoked cigar, and his fingers were steepled before him, nervously worrying at his chin. He frowned at me.

“A water pipe?” he suggested.

“It was not a water pipe,” I said. “So, it being barely Autumn, and the evenings still quite warm, the old lady was understandably perturbed that her attic should feel so uncommonly frigid. Still, the whistling had stopped, so she returned to her bedroom below, and fell asleep.

“The exact same thing happened the next night, and the next, and yes, the night after that. Always following the same pattern: the high, unwavering whistle which seeped inside and through the entire house, but which undoubtedly originated from that lofty, icy attic, and which always, always stopped dead when Mrs. Williams opened the door.

“On the sixth night, however, there was a distinct variation. For on the sixth night, the whistling was accompanied by the most frightful, dreadful scraping sound: as though something very heavy was being dragged across the floorboards....”

Holmes emitted a tiny squeak. He had drawn his legs tight to his chair, and his fingers were clutching the arm-rests. He was biting his lip.

“I do not think that I like this story,” said he.

“What a shame,” I said, dryly, “for I do not intend on curtailing the telling of it. So to continue. As you might well imagine, this new addition to the routine had now scared the poor dear lady quite out of her wits. She dared not rise from her bed, or ascend the steep steps to the attic, or open the door, for she feared very much what she might find there. She lay stiff in her bed all the night long, listening to the whistle and the constant scraping and dragging above her. She did not sleep a wink.

“The following morning she summoned up enough courage to peep inside the attic room, and she saw that everything was still in its place, with nothing disturbed. But oh! How very chill the room was, still, and how the hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up as she looked around it. So she packed a small suitcase that instant, and fled to her nearest neighbour and friend who lived in a cottage just a few minutes walk away. The old lady was far too afeared to tell her friend very much of her story, for she imagined her friend might well scoff, or think her a madwoman. But she asked if she might stay just a day or two, and the friend was kind enough to welcome her into her cottage, and to allocate her a room on the upper floor.

“So that night, after the old lady and her friend had retired to their rooms, our dear Mrs. Williams lay snug between the sheets, and she thought to herself: 'Ah, tonight, I will finally get a good sleep'. So she closed her eyes, and she began to drift into a sleep, _when it happened_.”

“Watson,” said Holmes, his voice wavery and uncertain, “please stop.”

“What is the matter, my dear fellow?” I asked.

Holmes grimaced at me. “Don't like it,” he said.

“I'm nearly at the end now,” I said. “You are such a baby.” My voice resumed the low, menacing pitch with which I had been relating my story. Holmes mewed his discomfort.

“She began to drift into a sleep, when it happened,” I repeated. “ _That very same whistling sound_ , high above her head. From the attic of her friend's home. _Whatever it was, it had followed her here_. Mrs. Williams froze rigid, could not move, could only listen to the terrible whistle. And then, beside the whistle, came the horrible, scraping, dragging sound, across bare floorboards -- as though a body was being hauled from one side to another. Scrape, scrape, drag, drag. And that awful, eerie whistle. The old lady lost all of her wits: she jumped out of her bed and ran out of the room -- but she was disorientated by the strange house. She misjudged where the staircase was situated; she took a wrong step, and so down, down she tumbled, straight down to the bottom of the stairs, with a broken neck. She was dead.

“Her friend, who had heard no strange noises -- no whistling, no scraping, no dragging at all – rushed to the stairs, to the body. She was very shocked, but she called immediately for help, and the poor dead woman's body was removed. The next day was a long, weary and upsetting one for Mrs. Fowler, but she managed to prevail, and retired early to her bed to think some of her poor lost friend, but more hopefully to sleep, for she was so very tired.

“But then, when she was almost asleep, when her limbs were heavy and her mind slowly running down, she sprang alert. What was that? A whistle... from the attic? Yes, a long, high, stretching whistle. How very, very odd. Mrs. Fowler rose from her bed, covered herself with a dressing gown, and went to investigate...”

I sat back in my chair, took a sip of my brandy, and looked across to Holmes. “That is the end of the story,” I said. My friend was pale-faced and appalled.

“What do you _mean_ , ' _that is the end of the story_ '?” he demanded, imitating my voice very badly. “What happened to Mrs. Fowler?”

I assumed the most sorrowful expression. “I suppose that whatever it was gradually increased its tormenting to scrapings and draggings, and then very likely to something altogether more sinister. The fun is in the imagining, isn't it?”

“No, it is not!” said Holmes. “How on earth do you expect me to get to sleep tonight?”

“My dear fellow, you should be fine. Well, I _say_ that. Fine, as long as you _don't_ hear a strange whistle, or a scraping, or a dragging...”

“Watson,” my friend said, as he rose from his chair with a wobble, “I promise to you now, that I will never, ever again turn your eggs into bats, or your mashed potato into castles, or... any of those other things. On one condition: That you will never again tell me a story that ensures me a chronic and possibly terminal insomnia.”

“I accept that condition,” I said, rising to my feet, then, and yawning. “I am turning in; I am quite dead to the world. Good night, and sweet dreams, old fellow.”


End file.
